Two Hours
by katbybee
Summary: Sometimes it takes a long time to lose yourself. Sometimes it doesn't take long at all. Written for the 2018 Speedwriting Challenge. This story is for my father and veterans like him-who spent time in places like this, who never really came back. I wish I could do more... UUD R/R


**~Andrew's POV~**

 **An awful lot can happen in two hours**. I should know. I left camp to deliver a message to one of our contacts and when I came back, everyone was gone. Well, not everyone…not the Germans. They're still here. But…all my friends. They're all gone. And I don't know where they've gone. I don't know who took them. I don't know why. But they are gone.

The weird thing is everything is quiet. I know they're there, I see them moving around… But the guard towers are empty…the searchlights are on…but not sweeping the camp like normal. It's more like they are just illuminating the camp. There are no guards with guns anywhere. And I don't understand. Where is everybody? There are no signs that the tunnels have been destroyed…none of the barracks are compromised. All the buildings look as if they are in perfect order…

Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my side. I stared up at the burning eyes of the Gestapo major glowering above me, and I realized what I had just seen at the camp was only a dream. Thank God! The major withdrew his boot from my ribs and grinned, obviously pleased at my pained reaction. I got my expression under control, but it was too late. He spoke at length, his harsh tones grating on my nerves. He spoke only German, obviously trying to get me to react. I did not, though I understood every word he said. I was much too old a hand to screw things up at this stage of the game.

I realized that he thought I was the weakest link in Papa Bear's operation, and therefore the most vulnerable. I couldn't really blame him. Actually, we've been down this road before, a number of times. One thing that does bother me this time is that I cannot remember how I was captured. I remember leaving camp with the message…and waking up here. That's it.

He smiled at me and left the room abruptly. I frowned at his sudden change in tactics. I stared around at the filthy cell…the concrete walls and floor were cold and moldy, and smelled of decay and old urine. I pulled myself up off the floor and painfully shuffled over to the metal bunk attached to the wall. I sat down on the thin mattress with a sigh. Somehow, it felt familiar, and for all that it did not make sense, there was something comforting about the single tattered grey blanket I pulled over my shoulders. Sleep soon claimed me.

 **~HH~**

 **VA Hospital,**

 **Helena Montana**

 **7 July 1958**

The solemn group gathered in the hallway. Peter Newkirk stared through the small observation window in the door of Room 617. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he watched his best friend stop his frantic pacing and lay down on the bed he had insisted on moving into the very corner of the spacious room. Not that he ever utilized most of the room. His pacing was confined to a mere five foot by seven-foot pattern. And he never spoke aloud, only muttering to himself. Except when he would lie down next to the bed, always for a specific period of time, and then he would remain perfectly still. Eventually, Andrew would suddenly cry out, and then sit up and shuffle to the bed, crawl into it, pull the blankets over himself, and fall asleep. The routine never varied. Nurses would enter and make sure he took his medicine, feed him, and attend to his various physical needs…but he never once acknowledged their presence in any way. He was cooperative and never violent…but never really present, either.

Doctors and psychiatrists had been trying to reach him for years. He had been a patient at the VA since the end of the war. The details of what had caused his breakdown were sketchy. All that was known was that he had been captured during some sort of secret mission while he was a POW at Stalag 13. He had been missing for exactly two hours.

Peter pleaded with the doctors to let him try one just one more time. The doctor in charge, Dr. Schaefer, was sympathetic, but reluctant. "I know you want to try to help your friend, but I have to be honest with you. Your attempts seem to do more harm than good." He opened the patient's extensive file. "There is a definite pattern of signs of non-compliance and depression after your visits. Basically, he stops functioning. Last time, it took nearly a week to get him to eat anything."

Peter turned on the doctor. "What, so I'm just supposed to forget 'im? Leave 'im here all alone to rot? Fat chance mate! I can't tell you how many times that man in there saved me life! I am not gonna just abandon 'im!"

Dr. Schaefer held up a placating hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Newkirk. I don't mean to upset you or make light of your friendship. But this is not about you. It is about what is best for my patient. I have to ask you not to come to see him. I have to ask you to put his needs first."

Peter scowled as he thought about what the doctor had said. "Alright, I'll make you a deal, Doc. One more visit. Just one more. An' if he reacts badly, then…that's it. No more. I promise. But it seems to me that the key is to find out what happened during those two hours, right?"

Dr. Schaefer frowned. "Yes, but my understanding is that no one knows what happened."

Newkirk smiled, his green eyes glinting. "Not true, mate. Andrew knows. Doc, let me take him outta here."

"What? You can't! He's not well!"

"He's not really sick either!" Peter shot back. "He just can't remember, and that's what's causing his problem. I want to try to help him remember what happened. How he got captured. What happened during those two hours."

Schaefer frowned. "That could be very dangerous."

Peter scoffed as he indicated the sleeping man through the small window. "You mean he'll be worse off than he is now?"

Dr. Schaefer smiled at the stubborn Londoner. "Let's step into my office and talk about it, shall we?"

Dr. Schaefer had to concede that Peter Newkirk had a point about his friend. He was new to Andrew Carter's case, and, indeed to the Helena VA. He had brought some new ideas with him from his native Switzerland and was a little more understanding of the patients 'plights than were some more traditional psychiatrists. He had read Carter's file and seen that Peter Newkirk had left his home in London and moved to Montana not long after Carter had been admitted to the hospital. He had visited once a month ever since as permitted and had regularly asked permission to remove his friend from the grounds for a "field trip." Permission had never been granted.*

Dr. Schaefer was curious about this unusual devotion, and asked Newkirk about the move.

Peter looked directly at the doctor, and his green eyes snapped mischievously, but there was challenge in his voice. "You want to know if we're nancy boys, right, Doc?"

Dr. Schaefer chuckled and shook his head. "Not particularly."

Peter relaxed. "Well, we're not...though some might think it. He's just me best mate. An' he's daft as 'ell." His eyes suddenly grew sad. "An' I miss him, Doc."

And that was when Nils Schaefer made his decision. "Alright, Mr. Newkirk. Tomorrow. You come back tomorrow morning, and you may take your friend outside the grounds of the hospital for an hour."

Immediately, Peter shook his head. "No. Three hours. Please. It's important."

Schaefer frowned. "Three? Why three?"

"Because it will us take a half hour to get where we need to go, and a half hour back. And that leaves us _two_ hours."

And Schaefer nodded… "Yes… two hours….alright then. You come at 9 am and have him back by noon."

Peter beamed.

 **~HH~**

 **VA Hospital,**

 **Helena Montana**

 **8 July 1958**

Peter showed up early the next morning. He was not allowed back to Andrew's room this time but was asked to wait in the lobby. He had gotten used to fielding quite a few funny looks for the way he was dressed. After all, he hadn't worn his RAF uniform since the end of the war, and a man sporting a greatcoat in July, even in Montana was bound to turn a few heads.

Peter was bored, but he understood the decision to have him wait. No one was quite sure how Andrew would react to the change in his routine. He fidgeted uncomfortably in the ugly green vinyl chair. He would have ducked out for a smoke but didn't want to miss his friend. He could have smoked in the lobby but didn't out of deference for the old man seated near him who seemed to have lung problems. Dr. Schaefer, a nurse, and two orderlies accompanied him out to the lobby, and so the group made quite an entourage.

Peter stood when he saw the group coming. His heart broke when he saw Andrew. He had brought his old uniform and flight jacket, as well as his flight cap. Andrew had always been slender, but now the jumpsuit, even though Peter had repaired and tailored it as well as he could, hung on his frail frame. His trusty old bomber jacket threatened to swallow him alive. Only his flight cap, perched jauntily towards the back of his head still looked the same. Peter knew for sure they were doing the right thing...but Andrew looked like a caricature of himself. And Peter hated himself at that moment. Hated the Germans. Hated everything and everyone. _And he smiled brightly._ "Hey, Andrew me lad, ready to go?"

No one was prepared for Andrew Carter's reaction.

 **Andrew's POV**

I turned over when I heard the door open. I was prepared for the major's return. He would sometimes shake me awake...sometimes kick me awake. But...it wasn't the major. The door was open, but no one was there. I was confused. The major was always there. Only this time he wasn't. I walked to the door. No one was there. I looked out. Nothing. And then...I saw the camp. The Germans were there, like always...no guards, everything peaceful. I realized it was just my dream again. I started to turn to go back to my bunk until I saw that the parade ground wasn't empty anymore. There was one man standing in the center of it. One of the guys! I stepped a little closer and he looked up…

The orderly on Carter's left was not prepared for his patient to suddenly vault forward three feet. He was thrown off balance and nearly tipped off his feet. The orderly on his right fared little better. Peter Newkirk instinctively lunged forward to catch his friend. "Andrew, are you alright?" he asked worriedly.

And for the first time since March 1945, Andrew Carter looked directly into someone's eyes. "Not yet, Peter. But I will be."

 **~The End~**

A/N: *Please realize that the Helena VA Hospital and any practices there are ENTIRELY fictitious and are totally a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to a VA hospital in that area are completely coincidental. * I also want to say thanks to my awesome writing partner Xav...and to my family...for listening...


End file.
